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Jericho

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Drowning in the music his truck provides, snowflakes collecting on the top of my black hat, sitting hand in hand with him under the starry sky, with nothing in the world that could take me away from this moment, I sigh and pray he’ll never let go. Liquid jade swirls with the natural chocolate brown of his eyes, taking me back to a time when things were simpler.
It is cold outside, about ten degrees cooler than the thermometer reads, but I don’t notice. I don’t notice anything but how perfectly unreal these past few minutes have been. When I sit next to him, our backs resting against the old oak tree, I’m comfortable enough to feel his warmth. This is my favorite place; it is a place without sound but of passion fueled by sight.
It’s hard to describe why I love this place more than any other. Maybe it is because I’ve never been to that exact spot on the far side of the lake with anyone else. Or maybe it’s because that was the first place we kissed, the moonlight providing us what little light we needed to intertwine our fingers and lock lips.
The real reason, which is locked in my heart, guarded by a silver keyhole, is him, Jericho. That distant place under the sturdy branches of the mighty oak, in front of the silver lined lake that ripples in the wind, isn’t my favorite place without him at my side.





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